


Musical Graveyard

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: Prodigal Son One-Shots And Drabbles [6]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29913174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: It doesn't matter that the graveyard stretches on farther than his eyes can see. He knows just as well he can make his way through, navigate this area with his eyes closed. But they remain open, wide open, as he makes his way through the sunlit field and passes rows upon rows of graves he can read without looking.
Series: Prodigal Son One-Shots And Drabbles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164734
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Musical Graveyard

The scene Malcolm is trapped in is oddly bright and cheerful for a graveyard.

It's… familiar, though. Familiar in the sense that he knows each one like the back of his hand. He can list the names and dates scrawled across each of them. Some are faded, some are fresh. Very fresh. But even the new ones, he knows, as if they'd been here since the dawn of time, he can read and remember and locate them with an ease of which he only seems to be at when he's here. It doesn't matter that the graveyard stretches on farther than his eyes can see. He knows just as well he can make his way through, navigate this area with his eyes closed. But they remain open, wide open, as he makes his way through the sunlit field and passes rows upon rows of graves he can read without looking. His mind whispers out names as he passes, hundreds upon thousands all at once, the song of the graveyard permanently engraved into his mind. There's murmurs of _Alexis Scott_ , and _Sharice Baker,_ and _Lyla Thompson_ and _Lara Bennett._ Four graves, adjacent to each other. He knows without looking. Their names are faded and their graves are caked in dirt at the bottom and covered in green at the top, where the grass and plants had overgrown and woven around, as if making them a permanent part of the Earth.

The song that sings in his ears as he passes is called the _Quartet._ It's over as soon as it begins, and Malcolm finds the absence to be more disturbing than anything. Then another one starts.

This one is louder. It demands to be heard. The _Quartet_ is so soft, gentle and ethereal. He's drawn to it instinctively, but this brings him to a pause, and he can't help but turn his head faintly to the side as it reaches him. The murmurs that encircle him are like the hum of a guitar, a frantic heartbeat disguised as a drum. It's enrapturing, trapping. It's the song of the _Butcher._

_Claude Springer._

Malcolm shivers, despite himself. He can't make out all the lyrics, but there's words like _injustice_ and _made_ and _scared_ sprinkled in. There's _guilty_ and _innocent,_ two words with such distinct, different meanings that manage to sound the same, weaved and whispered into this tune.

The grave isn't old, Malcolm acknowledges without looking. But it isn't new.

He listens for a moment longer before moving on.

The walk is longer this time. Malcolm weaves between graves without looking, acknowledges the silent songs of each one between him and his unknown destination. It's a little while longer before he's drawn to a stop again, and this time he recognizes the grave before the name and the song comes to him. The song is first. It's quiet and soothing, akin to a flute or a whistle. There's a fluttering beneath the melody that Malcolm associates with feathers, and wings. The lyrics are quieter than the music, laced with words like _loving_ , and _sunshine_ , and _fierce_ and _protective_ , and _gentle_ and _warm._ A song that soothes him and hurts him all in the same breath.

 _Jackie's Swan Song_ is as beautiful as the first time he'd heard it.

Malcolm blinks to clear the tears from his eyes, shakes his head and moves on.

Finally, he finds the _one_.

The grave isn't old, but it isn't new. It's been there for as long as Malcolm can remember, but only now does he really acknowledge the name scrawled across it. As he makes his way forward, with the caution of approaching a wounded animal, the song it sings makes his head spin. The music is faded, a thrum of two separate but connected heartbeats, the chime of the four highest notes on a piano, a musical hum that Malcolm can only pin to a human, a woman. The song holds words like _beautiful_ , and _complete_ , and _normal_ , and _healthy_ , and _adore_. Listening closer, he picks out words that sound smaller, faded beneath the surface of the music. He recognizes _fantasy_ and _wishful thinking_ and _not meant to last_.

This song doesn't have just one name. There's _Siren_ , and _Beloved_ , and _Angel,_ and _Savior._

Malcolm suddenly remembers to breathe, like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. The shift is quick. The song stops playing. It's gone, and she goes with it as quickly as she had before. The sudden silence that falls across his musical graveyard hurts more than it helps.

And then he hears it.

It's ominous and slow. The pounding of a heart that doesn't seem to function correctly.

There's no music. Only a steady beat.

Between them, he hears growls of _killer_ , and _dangerous_ , and _deranged_. The song increases rapidly in volume and in intensity, until Malcolm can't take it anymore. He clasps his hands over his ears and backs away, squeezing his eyes shut, blind and lost in a place he'd been able to maneuver through since he was eleven years old. The words get louder still, demanding his attention. Words like _evil_ and _undeserving_ and _ruthless_ , and words like _hate_ and _fear_ and _grief._

Malcolm doesn't know what to call this one.

He hears _downfall_ and _torn apart_ and _untouchable._

He doesn't need to open his eyes, but he does. He can't help but flinch at the sight in front of him. The newest grave. His heart pounds a little quicker in his chest; this one is bigger, taller than the rest of them. It looms over the graveyard, demanding attention as strongly as the song does. It seems to grow even bigger still as the song continues, the words getting louder and louder, but he can't be sure. He knows when it touches the sky, darkness seeming to fall all around him like clouds had settled over the graveyard entirely, and the air grows cold as he takes it in. The name is scratched across the grave in red, written in the neat cursive Malcolm would recognize as Ainsley's handwriting always and forever, without fail. _Nicholas Endicott._

Thunder clashes.

Malcolm wakes with a scream.


End file.
